


The Witching Hour

by missdeathfrisbee



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exploration: Love Won't Always Save You, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Sick Character, Teenagers, please tread carefully, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 19:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14858579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdeathfrisbee/pseuds/missdeathfrisbee
Summary: There was something about Merlin. There always had been. Something in the way those blue things floating in his eyes flitted inconsistently around a room. Something in the way his cotton sleeves curled around the heels of his hands as if his arms were secrets. Merlin was delicate, and Arthur, fascinated.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Please read tags for Trigger Warnings. This is an exploration of a sensitive topic, somewhat drawn from personal experience. Please be considerate. Thank you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploration: The Existence of Criteria

There was something about Merlin.

There always had been. Something in the way those blue things floating in his eyes flitted inconsistently around a room. Something in the way his cotton sleeves curled around the heels of his hands as if his arms were secrets. Something in the way he walked, like the amoebas in the air swirled around his hips, his thighs; watching his every move. Merlin was delicate, and Arthur, fascinated.

They had both attended the same secondary school for three years now, Arthur having transferred there in year nine when Morgana had been expelled from their previous private school. Uther had been atrociously irate to the point of volatility, his hand swinging too close to Morgana's face one too many times. She had been insistent on attending a grammar school after that – either to simply rebel against their father, or because she was so incredibly impartial when it came to the educational hierarchy – and Arthur had seen it fit to join her, if only to distribute Uther's rage more evenly across the collective area of their backsides.

It was only fitting that Arthur became friends with a group of generic teenage boys, each with their irrationally lithe, pizza-reliant bodies, swilling cheap booze at cheap parties – parties with episodes of partial nudity and the exchanging of bodily fluids. It's cool to be nonchalant, racist, and sexist when you're seventeen years old because often the 'zero-fucks' personality is one that gets plenty of fucks. Don't ask why – Arthur had always thought girls deserved so much more than a drunk Gwaine on a Friday night. But British men are walking juxtapositions; often English scholars brimming with etiquette, but somehow swarming with sarcasm and crudity at the same time. Arthur joined in, of course, with this stereotype, because Arthur was also a generic teenage boy – but there had always been something about Arthur too.

Morgana had become best friends with Guinevere, a girl whose skin looked warm from several desks way, and whose hair liked to curl around her ears affectionately. And despite both being in the year above, they both were friends with Merlin, a quiet boy amongst strangers but generally renowned for his own more tasteful witticisms. Merlin was in Arthur's year, but in sixth form only attended one of Arthur's classes – which was irrelevant, because Merlin learned things on an entirely different platform. Alice, their History teacher, often placed him at the back with some dusty, possibly septic textbook, so he could 'expand his horizons' on some other obscure medieval topic. Because of course, Merlin had already taught himself the entire syllabus, and already knew so much about the Russian revolution that Arthur wouldn't be surprised if he'd actually lived through it.

And that was another thing about Merlin. His mind often did not reside in his body, and his body often did not reside in the norms of modern society – no, Merlin wasn't here. Arthur was certain that Merlin was somewhere else.

But Arthur would find him. That is... if he ever found the courage to break the norms of modern society himself.

*

It started on a regular Tuesday, during the witching hour.

Arthur's kitchen was dimly lit, mostly by the light above the stove, at 3 AM that morning. At first he almost didn't notice the breeze as the large expanse of the countertop stretched out before him, littered with stray pizza boxes and his current glass of water. But eventually it ghosted over his skin, along with the smell of burning leaves and crushed herbs, and Arthur looked up to see the heavily clothed boy crouched at the opposite end of the kitchen. His feet dipped precariously into the sink as he leaned out of the window, sucking deeply on a newly rolled joint. He turned and smiled. "Hey there Arthur."

The blonde scoffed, swilling his drink around the bottom of the glass. "You're lucky father isn't home." Silence. "Not that he'd recognise the smell of weed anyway."

"But you do?"

"Morgana smokes enough of it."

Merlin nodded, dragging in another euphoric breath and spending the next nine seconds watching the moon waft across the clouds. The smoke curled into the night sky. "Just thirsty?"

Arthur downed the rest of his water. "'S'pose." He licked his lips, his mouth feeling exceptionally dry. "We have school tomorrow – today." Merlin stared, joint dejectedly fuming. "A drug-induced low doesn't sound like a great asset when it comes to calculus, does it?"

The boy at the window laughed. "Neither does sleep deprivation," he said pointedly, stubbing the blunt out in the sink. "It wouldn't be the first time I've sleepwalked through implicit differentiation."

"I don't even know why anyone would _do_ Maths." Arthur cringed, getting up to rinse his glass out in the sink. "Do you enjoy being tortured?"

"I must do, considering I have no other legitimate reason for studying it." Merlin swung his legs round, leaping awkwardly onto the linoleum. "The rest of my subjects aren't exactly compatible."

"I know you do History..."

"As well as Philosophy, English Literature, and Art-"

"Five A levels?" Arthur spluttered. "I mean, I knew people did that, but I thought I'd never met one because they ended up in _mental asylums_ –"

"Hey!" Merlin feigned offence, kicking the blonde in the shins. Then he laughed, snickering into his hands. "God, you're so right though. I don't know what was going through my head."

"Well if you're to keep that head upright tomorrow, I'd hit the hay." The boy nodded, sweeping a hand through his fringe and hunching his shoulders. He took off towards the door, and Arthur watched the way the jumper, two sizes too big, hung cosily from his shoulders. The nape of his neck peeked out of the wool, starkly pale in the dark.

And just inside the doorframe, he slipped.

"Woah!" Arthur exclaimed, holding his hands out uselessly as Merlin's hands clung to the wall. "Are you alright?"

The dark head turned wearily to face him, eyes hooded and mouth slack. "Yeah, sorry," he slurred, yanking himself upright. "Weed is..." He swirled a hand next to his ear, wobbling. "Nice talking to you Arthur."

And he left.

*

A few days later found Merlin in the Pendragon household again, feet on Gwen's lap and Morgana sprawled in an armchair as they watched some dated horror film. Arthur slipped into the room somewhere around the denouement of the plot, and flashed Merlin a boyish smile. "Do you ever go home, Merlin?"

"Ha ha." He rolled his eyes, gesturing to Morgana and Gwen. "As if they'd survive without me."

"Sleeping over again?" Merlin nodded, pulling the woollen blanket further up his chin. Arthur noted how warm it was, and stared at an absent-minded Merlin, who shivered slightly. "Are you cold?"

"A little." Truthfully, the circulation to Merlin's hands and feet were exceptionally poor. He always found himself perpetually freezing, no matter the time of year. "It's fine though."

Arthur found him a hot water bottle anyway.

Once again, in the small hours of the morning, the two boys came across each other. Merlin shuffled into the kitchen to find Arthur fiddling with the kettle, placing two innocent tea bags into two suspicious mugs. "Tea?" he asked without looking up, and Merlin curled himself atop the counter again without deigning Arthur a reply.

The blonde handed the raven a warm mug, and watched as he leaned, eyes closed, into the steam. "I didn't add sugar..."

"That's fine," Merlin replied, glancing at Arthur with large blue eyes. There was a moment of silence, in which their tea cooled by a single degree. Merlin wrapped his hands wholly around the mug, pressing his knees in either side.

"You look tired," Arthur observed.

"That's because I am."

"Why aren't you sleeping?"

Merlin looked at his hands, brow slightly furrowed and mouth twisted. "For the last two or three years I've hung around this place endlessly. You've never really spoken with me until now."

Arthur blinked. "Uh..."

"I don't mind. I quite like it actually." The paler boy drank deeply from the cup, lips resting gently on the rim. He sighed. "This is good tea."

Arthur took that to mean they might be friends.

*

Over the next three months Arthur and Merlin had regular conferences in the kitchen, in which cannabis was smoked, blankets warmed on radiators, and the length tea should steep was discussed. Sometimes Merlin would arrive with some kind of hippie tea with a name like "matcha green" or "sanguinello orange and vanilla," and Arthur would drink it, pull faces, and call Merlin an idiot. "Enough of your nonsense brews," he would say, and Merlin would chuckle, and then turn up with "oolong" the next week.

Sometimes, if Arthur was feeling confident enough in his knowledge of the Russian Revolution, he would join Merlin at the back of their History class (to Lance's dismay). They'd laugh about the history of medieval medicine, because lord was it ridiculous, and then Merlin would scold Arthur for not working, because lessons are for learning and not for making jokes about whatever fashion choice Merlin had made that day.

They never did eat together at lunch though. Lunches were always reserved for Arthur's generic teenage boy clique – because who doesn't enjoy the intellectual stimulation that comes with sticking chips into various facial orifices and speaking about football around a mouthful or processed cow. Arthur enjoyed Gwaine, Leon, and Lancelot's company, but it often left his brain idle. Merlin liked to paint on the inside of his eyelids with the words he used, and sometimes, just sometimes, the warmth that had begun to fester in his brain became a white, 5th of November sparkler.

The thing is, Merlin never came to lunch anyway. Not even Gwen or Morgana knew where he went that singular hour of the day.

Arthur wasn't very observant but, when it came to Merlin, he noticed everything. The crinkles around his eyes when he smiled, the gentle slope of his eyelashes, the fullness of his lips; along with the hollows those eyes resided in, the brittleness of his hair, and the small, but harsh cracks that had begun to form around his mouth. Arthur wanted to ask, but the witching hour seemed too precious, and History was never appropriate.

So they continued to drink tea, and Arthur breathed secondary smoke, and they all pretended that he wasn't wondering where Merlin was, when his mind wasn't in his body, and his body wasn't walking quietly with the rest of them.

*

And yet, everything is temporary.

It was a Wednesday – or it could have been a Thursday – when Arthur was crossing from Politics to Sociology and he spotted a dark, wandering head of hair. It was following the current of the rest of the corridor, but every so often it lolled, was pushed, and then faced forward again. Arthur didn't call out – he didn't have to, because he knew that the other boy wouldn't hear him. 

Instead, he only shouted incoherently when Merlin eventually fell.

The crowd parted for Arthur Pendragon, as it often did, when the muscular blonde stumbled over to where his friend had collapsed. He peered nervously at the awkward angle of his body, the way his head was tilted away from Arthur, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, before hauling the quite frighteningly light boy over his shoulder. Gwen, only a few masses of people away, pressed a hand to her mouth – she, like Arthur, had wondered about Merlin. Yes, she had known him since they were young, and she'd always known he was different – but no, no because –

Something had changed.

Arthur could feel his shallow breathing against his neck, causing his hairs to stand on end; and when he grasped his friend's hand, it was frosted with cold. With each step he took towards the nurse's office, the more apparent it became that something was seriously wrong – Merlin's wrist felt as if it would snap beneath Arthur's fingers, and his eyes were hollow and pale. Arthur wondered if he had been sick recently and they had all failed to notice. He wondered if his mum couldn't pay for food, and they had never thought to ask. He wondered if they were really, truly, in fact terrible friends.

But then again, if Merlin didn't want them to know something, the likelihood is, they wouldn't.

It seemed there had already been a runner when Arthur had taken hold of Merlin, because when Arthur arrived, the nurse was already by the bed. Gaius, a kind old man who doubled as the school counsellor, rushed forward to help the blonde set Merlin down so he was prostate with his hands limply by his sides. Arthur wanted to scream. Gaius, Hunith's oldest friend and Merlin's substitute guardian, hurriedly checked the boy's pulse and temperature. "There's no fever," he said, frowning as he grasped Merlin's hand, "but his pulse is thready." The old man turned to Arthur. "Has he been unwell recently?'

He shrugged, at a loss for words. "I don't think so, but... You know he hides these things."

"Indeed." Gaius checked the back of his head for damage. "There's a big bump, but he should be okay. He'll probably come around in a few minutes."

"Good," Arthur huffed, taking a seat next to the cot. "The bloody fool has a lot to answer for."

When Merlin did come round, it took Arthur several seconds to even notice he was awake. His friend didn't make sound, barely shifted where he lay – simple opened his eyes, and stared.

"Merlin?" Nothing. Arthur looked up at the ceiling and found nothing of particular interest, except perhaps that suspicious seaweed-tinted stain that was spread across the trimming of one corner. He sat back down and frowned at the glassy sheen over Merlin's eyes. "Merlin, are you –"

A single tear slid from the corner of his left eye and crept down the sharp slope of his face. Arthur wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Merlin cry before, but he found himself stiffen when a short, broken gasp shot from Merlin's mouth and he began to truly sob. He brought a shaking hand over his lips and heaved shallow breaths into his palm; eyes squeezed shut as if to trap the saltwater in. Arthur remained motionless as Gaius rushed over and sat the boy up, rubbing his back as he shook like a withered leaf upon the cot, barely able to grasp the air before it came stuttering out again through chattering teeth. Gaius gestured to a blanket with his eyes, and the blonde hurriedly handed it to him, glad to feel useful.

"Hush, Merlin, just breathe," Gaius soothed as he wrapped the woollen material around his narrow shoulders. Merlin pressed his hand to his jaw harder, growing quieter as the minutes drew on but never ceasing his hollow trembling. Not a single man in the room knew what to say. But perhaps one did know what to do. Arthur stood, collecting his blazer from over the chair and jangling his car keys.

"I'll take him home," the blonde said, glancing at the time. "Last period is almost over anyway, and I don't think he should be on the bus."

Merlin glanced up then, eyes wide. "N-No, Arthur don't – it's not even on your way –"

"I think he's right," Gaius interjected. The old man gave the younger a smile. "You don't look well, my boy. Let Arthur drive you home."

Merlin's eyes watered, but he didn't argue. He stood shakily and moved to grab his schoolbag, only for Arthur to move in first and sling it over his shoulder. The raven scowled. "What?" Arthur smirked, shooting him a wink. "I'm doing you a favour."

"Oh, my knight in shining armour," he drawled, voice heavily laced with sarcasm.

"Merlin?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

He smiled, looking down at his scruffy shoes. There was a moment of silence, in which perhaps Gaius' eyebrow grew a notch higher, and Merlin's ears grew a shade redder. Arthur was an ignorant bugger as always. Merlin cleared his throat. "Well, Sir Knight. Lead the way."

*

The car journey was painfully silent, with nothing but the incessant garble of the radio to break through the tension between the passengers. Merlin spent most of it picking at a loose thread on his winter coat, which he wore in the softly sunny month of April, and Arthur with his eyes on the road and his fingers drumming quietly on the wheel. When they finally did pull up to Merlin's house, the blonde took note of the darkened windows. "Your mum's not home?"

Merlin looked blandly up at their cramped, semi-detached townhouse. "She's working a late shift at the hospice," he muttered to the polished Bentley window. Arthur frowned, scratching at the shadow on his chin, before cutting the engine and clambering out of the car. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Arthur walked round the vehicle and opened the front passenger door, meeting Merlin's puzzled look with an eye roll. "I'm staying here with you until Hunith gets back."

"Why?"

He grinned. "I guess I'm just that sort of guy."

Merlin closed his eyes, not even meeting Arthur's words with a quip of his own. "You don't have to worry about me. I was just tired earlier. I'll grab a cup of tea and get an early night."

"Well I hope you're having a biscuit with that tea because god Merlin, you look half-starved." His blue eyes darkened with concern at this friend's pale face. "Come on now. At least let me fix you something to eat."

Merlin scoffed, pushing himself out of the car and towards the house. "I am not putting anything you make me into my mouth. The best meal I've received from any Pendragon was two burnt slices of toast."

The shorter boy feigned hurt. "There was marmalade on that toast."

"No, Arthur, marmalade is made with oranges. You spread mango chutney on that toast."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"If you put marmalade on your pork, then yes." Merlin fiddled with his keys before finding the right one and sliding it into the door. "I don't think you've ever been inside my house before."

"Nope..." Arthur stared at the walls, his mouth slightly ajar. Almost every single one was adorned with a board or canvas, glorious paintings garbed with a whole world of colours on each one. There was a muted scene of a castle beyond a field hanging crooked, in water colour, above the sofa; an impressionist lake at the base of a mountain painted thickly in oils next to the small kitchen table; and then a dragon, painted with what must have been fire and gold, flying magnificently above their little wooden mantelpiece. There was not a single syllable Arthur could use that would describe the incredibility of the artwork he was witnessing – he felt transported to another time, perhaps even another universe, and yet felt at home.

"Jesus," he muttered, moving further into the living room to observe the brushstrokes further. "These are incredible."

"Thank you," Merlin said, smirking. "I take requests."

Arthur turned to stare at his mysterious friend. "You painted these?" Merlin rolled his eyes. "Mate, I know you study art, but I didn't have you tagged as an artiste."

"I get it from my dad, apparently," the teen replied sombrely, moving past some shirts hung in the doorway and into the kitchen. "I'm making tea. Want some?"

"Stupid question." Merlin chuckled and set aside two chipped mugs. Arthur loved them as soon as he saw them – they were large enough to hold soup. As the kettle whistled, Arthur sat at the little table and observed the room. Saw the three browning bananas in the fruit bowl. Saw the emptiness of the cupboards as Merlin hunted for a spoonful of sugar. He was aware that Hunith worked long-shifts if only to pay the bills for their little townhouse, but he didn't realise that she was never there to supply food. Or could she afford it? Arthur frowned.

"Here." Merlin placed a large milky cup in front of him, and the blonde inhaled the sweet steam as it hit his chin. He looked over at Merlin's greenish looking tea. "Peppermint and fennel," Merlin answered before he could ask.

"Merlin..." The pale boy looked up at him with hooded eyes. "Is there bread to make toast?"

Merlin cringed. "No."

"Eggs?" Merlin shook his head. " _Crackers?_ "

The brunette gestured to the bowl. "There're bananas."

"You can't live off bananas Merlin," Arthur exhaled exasperatedly, drumming his fingers on the table.

Merlin's mouth quirked up into a smile. "No," he said, looking down at the surface of his tea. "Especially not those ones. Those look positively disgusting."

He grunted in agreement. "Seriously though Merlin, _why is there no food?_ "

His long pale fingers gripped the ceramic tighter at the question, turning the tips of his skin pink. Merlin pressed his dark eyelashes against his cheeks several times, lower lip receding into his mouth. "Mum usually gets all her food at work. There's cereal and milk for her breakfast though."

"Okay – but what about you?"

He set his mug down. "She gives me money for grocery shopping."

"Which you've spent on what, exactly?"

Merlin's chair scraped back on the linoleum as he stood, fists against the table. "What does it matter?" he snapped, shooting Arthur an angry glare. He migrated over to the cupboards, flinging them open. "Look, there's rice, and canned tomatoes, and –" he pulled out two long green plants. "Leeks. See, I bought leeks."

"How appetising," Arthur drawled sarcastically, standing himself. "When was the last time you had a proper meal?"

The taller boy opened his mouth as if to answer with gusto, held his hand halfway up, and then snapped his lips shut again. He narrowed his eyes, turning away. "Please leave me."

"Merlin –"

"Get out!" he shouted, and if Arthur didn't know any better, it was tearfully. "I don't need you telling me how to eat. I don't need anyone telling me how to eat. Please just... go."

Arthur sighed deeply, taking his keys out of his blazer. He left his eyes upon Merlin just a second longer, before turning to let himself out.

Merlin waited for door to hit frame before he fell to his knees and wailed.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploration: Food Still Tastes Good

He didn't show at school the next day, but that was unsurprising. He looked as if he should be in a hospital.

Arthur approached Morgana just before fifth period, taking her by the wrist and dragging her into an empty hallway. She growled menacingly at him and whacked him in the side with her folder, smouldering. "I have history next, you should know," she said aloofly, looking down her nose at Arthur's tatty sports bag. "And if you knew _anything_ about the life of a year thirteen, you would know that attendance is _extremely important_."

"Oh fuck off, Morgana." He looked over his shoulder, making sure they were alone. "I only wanted to talk to you for a minute."

"Well I hardly have time –"

"It's about Merlin."

She looked down at her hands, her deep sea-glass eyes softening. "What about him?"

"I'm worried –" Arthur cleared his throat, crossing his arms. "He's a bit... Has he always missed lunch?"

Morgana's brow furrowed, and she shook her head. "No, he used to sit with us every day. He always liked Thursdays because he got to have beans with his jacket potato... and he'd have a piece of fruit, because all the desserts contained dairy." Arthur looked at her expectantly. "I... I honestly don't know when he stopped coming."

Arthur huffed, running his hands through his hair. "Well, where does he go instead?"

Morgana scowled. "How would I know?" But then her eyes narrowed in contemplation. "He's very studious. Loves his books. Probably the library." Arthur nodded, resting a hand on her shoulder. She looked as if she might hiss at him and bite it.

"Thanks Morgana," he shouted back to her as he sprinted out of the hallway, already late for fifth period Sociology. She glared, but there was something softer around her mouth.

Arthur barely remembered where he was during class, let alone had any inclination to begin comprehending the case study his professor was babbling on about – his mind was far too preoccupied with Merlin. Merlin, his closest friend, Arthur thought. He didn't know if he could consider him this, what with their encounters usually being completely unplanned, unlike going to the movies with his mates; but there was definitely some kind of deliberateness behind them. And he was sure they meant more than any drunken nights spent with people such as Gwaine, Lance, or Leon, who, whilst good people, provided little intellectual stimulation.

Arthur felt warm when he was with Merlin. He wasn't sure if he could say the same for the other boy though, what with him looking like he would freeze to death at the pinnacle of summer.

He considered going to visit his house after school, but felt that might be an invasion of privacy. After all, it had only been one day, and maybe he was simply getting much needed rest. He was probably best left undisturbed, and he felt sure he'd be able to keep his concern quenched for at least another twenty-four hours.

So Arthur went straight home after school, exchanged brief smiles with his sister on the doorstep, ignored his father's stark absence as he moved through the house, and tried his hardest not to think about a tall, thin teenager with ridiculous ears.

*

To his relief, Merlin made an appearance at school the next day, even if he tried his best to avoid Arthur. Although he didn't look much better, there was a healthier pink high on his cheeks as he sat at the back of their History class, head bowed and hands thumbing a particularly large textbook. He wasn't sure if the raven simply didn't feel his intense gaze, or he chose to ignore it.

Come lunchtime, as usual, Merlin was nowhere to be seen. Glancing at Morgana from across the room, Arthur rose from his seat, dismissing his friends' shouts of protest with a quick wave of his hand. Nevertheless, Lance watched him curiously as he carried his sticky tray out of the canteen, and towards the library.

It didn't take him long to locate Merlin. His gangly form was stretched out in a battered armchair, near one of the only windows. Soft sunlight streamed through the glass and appeared to cascade across every inch of his pearly skin, illuminating his sharp cheekbones and his birdlike fingers as they flicked through the pages of an art journal. He didn't take heed of Arthur's approach, instead leant back further and seemed to sigh softly, ethereal in the buttery lighting.

Arthur stood back and watched him for a while, feeling like he was intruding on something sacred. Merlin's blue eyes seemed to be somewhere else, not just studying the book but almost peering deeply _into_ it, like he himself was a impressionist composition in the collection. But after an embarrassingly long while staring, Arthur felt like it was probably time to make his presence known. He cleared his throat, grinning when Merlin nearly dropped the book in surprise. "Away with the fairies, were we?" He frowned, peering at the cover of the journal. "Or with... Gustav Klimt?"

The taller youth closed the book on his fingers, regarding the front cover himself. "He was an important symbolist painter during twentieth century neoclassicism," he said, looking at Arthur through his eyelashes, who nodded as if he knew exactly what Merlin meant. "I'm trying to glean inspiration from him before my art exam in three weeks."

"Oh yeah," Arthur said, eyes widening. He placed his food tray on the low table in front of Merlin, who eyed it warily. "I forgot art students had their exam before anyone else. Shit, I'm going to have to start revising soon, aren't I?"

Merlin chuckled, reopening his book. "Yes, if you intend to pass your AS."

"So..." Arthur tapped his knees a couple times, before reaching forward and plucking a chip from his plate. Merlin stoically took no notice of him. "What's your art project... about, exactly?"

"Klimt almost insulted the social structure of the time with his work, even if that wasn't his original intention. He thought his art was meant to please him, not others." He turned the book around, showing Arthur a rectangular demonstration of monochrome chaos. He vaguely recognised some naked bodies, a woman wrapped in snakes, and a skeleton. "This painting is named _Medicine_ , and shows the river of life. The naked bodies in the river are supposed to represent the living, and the skeleton is supposed to represent death. Down here," he continued, circling his finger over the woman with the snake, "is Hygieia. She was the daughter of the god of medicine and the goddess of healing, and is thus the Greek representation of health and hygiene." He stared at the blonde, checking to see that he was following so far. "But she's got her back turned to the living, see?"

Arthur nodded, brow creased like an old newspaper. "So Klimt believed medicine wasn't working in their favour."

"And that's insulting."

"Why?"

"Because he lived in Vienna," he explained, turning the book back to face him. "At the time, Vienna was leading the world in medical research, and that was something many scholars were proud of. And this painting was supposed to be presented on the ceiling of a University. Many believed it didn't support Vienna's fight for greatness." Merlin traced the shiny page of the book with his finger, thoughtful. "In fact, the painting was part of a set, and all of them exuded anxiety. They were even considered by some to be pornographic, and hence inappropriate."

"You speak like a lecturer."

Merlin grimaced faintly, eyes so low they were almost closed. "Even after all the critique," he said quietly, voice barely surpassing a whisper; "he continued to create art only for himself, and those who supported him. A later painting, named _Goldfish_ , depicted a beautiful woman, exposing her behind and smiling at the viewer – his way of telling his attackers to go fuck themselves."

Arthur laughed loudly. Merlin did not.

"Arthur," Merlin muttered, fiddling with a dog-eared page. "Why are you here?"

He considered his answer for a while – he could tell his friend the truth, and express the full extent of his worry; perhaps even offer a shoulder of support. But he had a feeling this would only scare Merlin away, and he didn't want to make him feel unsafe in his own territory. So instead, he gestured to his lunch, shrugging.

"Got tired of Gwaine vulgarly describing, in vivid detail, his sexual escapades from the night before." He shoved a few more chips into his mouth, and said through them – "figured I'd have lunch with someone else for once. Someone with actual brain cells." He smiled at Merlin, who himself was trying not to look too amused by the grease smudged on Arthur's chin. "And you've definitely just proved you have those."

Merlin smirked at that, and Arthur felt whole again.

*

"You never actually answered my question."

Merlin rounded a puzzled expression on Arthur, shifting the straps of his rucksack as they walked. They had agreed that he would escort Merlin to his bus stop, at least – Arthur had at first insisted he drive him home, but the taller boy had argued that it was out of his way; and besides, it would do him good to get the exercise. Arthur completely disagreed with the latter, but said nothing. "What do you mean?" Merlin said, pouting, his lower lip protruding youthfully over his chin.

"I asked what _your_ art project was about, Merlin, but you only told me about Klimt's." The raven raised his eyebrows, but stayed silent. "What are you going to paint?"

"Aha," he snapped, raising a finger. "That's your first mistake. You assume it's going to be a painting."

Arthur frowned. "It isn't?"

"Not necessarily," he responded, a sly smile splitting his face. "Secondly, you clearly aren't a visionary, Monsieur Pendragon, or you would not have to ask." When he was sure Arthur looked sufficiently perplexed, he clapped his hands. "I told you, our friend Gustav would paint for himself, and often liked to offend the public with his perspective. So, that's what I intend to do."

Arthur gaped at the idiot as he beamed away, clearly proud of himself. "You want to _insult people_ with your work?"

"Absolutely." Merlin skipped ahead a little, before slowing to match their walking pace once more. "People should be shocked, and want to look the other way – but at the same time, be unable to."

Arthur found himself, not for the first time, wondering how a person could be so inexplicably complex and yet appear so transparent at the same time. He watched as the dark-haired boy shuddered slightly against the non-existent cold, and yet dimpled warmly down at Arthur. He wondered how he seemed to walk with such confidence, and yet looked like he may fall over his feet any moment; how he could talk of such dark art, and yet have painted golden dragons all his life; and most of all, how such a small, slight frame could take up so much space that Arthur could even feel him in every pore upon his flesh.

"You alright?"

Arthur jumped at the question, realising they were already at the bus stop, and that he had spaced out for a significant amount of time. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Yeah, fine," he said, a little bewildered. "Just thinking."

"Oh dear," Merlin simpered, a glint in his eye. "I sure hope you haven't hurt yourself."

The blonde shoved him playfully as the number '07' bus pulled up, a dirty white and blue monster belching out heavy, black exhaust fumes. The beast settled on its grimy tires, huffing. He sighed. "'Spose that's your cue."

"'Spose it is." He pulled the weight further up his shoulders, avoiding Arthur's gaze. "Thanks... for having lunch with me."

Arthur chuckled, reaching up to ruffle his hair. "Nah, mate. Thanks for saving me from Gwaine's mindless chatter."

" _Ahem_." The two spun at dizzying speed to see a handsomely rugged face observing them, arms crossed over his lean body. "I'll have you know that I'm a brilliant conversationalist."

Arthur guffawed, slapping a stunned Merlin on the shoulder. "Yeah," he said, "if you're into stories about drunken knobheads falling arse over tit and yet _still_ bedding about five women, simultaneously."

"Aw, Arthur," Gwaine cooed, mimicking the blonde's actions from only a few minutes before by running his fingers through Arthur's hair. "You make me sound like some kind of _god_. Poor Merlin won't stand a chance." He winked at the raven, who stood recovering from the fact Gwaine actually knew his _name_ , let alone just flirted with him, and then turned and clambered onto the bus. Merlin looked at Arthur, speechless.

The Pendragon only snickered, pushing him towards the vehicle. He stumbled up the steps, looking back with a baffled expression.

"See you tomorrow Merlin." Arthur waved, and then the doors hissed shut, obscuring Merlin from view.

*

The weekend was the same as most others in the Pendragon household – meaning, Merlin knocked on the door promptly after lunch on Saturday, and then let himself in. Gwen would arrive later that evening, after she had helped close her father's metalwork shop; but for now, Morgana simply rushed at Merlin in a whirlwind of dark curls, crushing his skinny frame in her formidable embrace.

"Oh darling," she sung, yanking his coat from his arms before he'd even had the chance to remove it, "I tried my hand at making fried falafel; I know they're your favourite." She held his face in both of her pale hands, frowning down on him with a sort of motherly concern. "You're far too thin. I won't have it." And then she glided towards the back kitchen, waving for him to follow.

Merlin tried to supress his disdain – he didn't stand a chance against Morgana, who often exploited the fact she was one year his senior by ordering him to do things he didn't want to. He slid onto a chair at the table, watching as she padded gracefully around the kitchen, collecting a wrapped dish and a bottle of tahini sauce. She placed both in front of him. "Eat up," she said. "I want your verdict."

He took the cling-film from atop the plate and picked up a golden, rounded falafel – perfect, like Morgana. He rolled it between his fingers, wondering how it was possible to love someone so much, and yet envy them so violently. Meeting her expectant gaze, he bit into it, his tongue hungrily meeting a gorgeous blend of spices and the rich flavour of fresh chickpeas. Her smile seemed to grow exponentially as he finished it, and so he made a show of licking his fingers, nodding thoughtfully. "Well," he said offhandedly, positioning his chin on his palm, "I must say, you make a mean falafel, Morgana."

"Marvellous!" She beamed at him, and then shoved the plate closer. Merlin tried not to stare at the unblemished curve of her slender arm. "Go on, try one with tahini then!"

He gulped; about to say he had already eaten when Arthur entered the kitchen, empty lemonade can in hand. He grinned at Merlin, who wasn't certain he had it in him to return the gesture, before depositing the can in the recycling. "Merlin!" he exclaimed, opening the fridge, "I was about to replenish my supply of lemonade. Want some?"

A protest hung on his lips, but before he could word it, the athlete had already thrown one his way in an expert arch – Merlin, unprepared, caught it sloppily. Arthur came to join them at the table, eyeing his friend's snack curiously. "What are those?"

"Falafels," Merlin and Morgana said simultaneously. The former nervously tapped the side of his can. "They're Merlin's favourite. He was just about to have some more," she continued.

"Oh," the blonde responded, eyes lighting up. "Well, don't let me stop you!"

Merlin, who not for lack of trying, couldn't ignore the happiness on both their faces – and perhaps, even a hint of worry – sighed. He popped his can open with a satisfying _fzzzt_ , and took a swig of his drink. His sweet, calorific drink. And then he poured tahini sauce onto his plate, dipped a falafel into the dense substance, and tried not to notice the way his friends' features dissolved into poorly disguised relief.

He wondered how such lovely flavours could also rather horrifically taste like defeat.

*

Arthur had been entertaining many theories about Merlin, but his main one had been that he had some kind of mental affliction. It was often seen in intelligent types, and he had spent hours researching Merlin's symptoms on his laptop – weight loss, vertigo, irritability – and had become of the opinion that his friend must suffer from some kind of eating disorder. However, watching Merlin consume almost all of his plate, picking up pace along the way and at least somewhat enjoying himself, he began to doubt this conjecture, and almost berated himself for jumping to such ridiculous conclusions.

"Morgana," he ventured shyly as he took a washed glass from her and began drying it, "what do you think is wrong with Merlin?" At her puzzled expression, he elaborated. "It's just, he looks so sickly. And you know him far better than I..."

The brunette sighed, ceasing the harsh scrubbing she was inflicting on an innocent saucepan. "I don't know. He's always been a little insecure, but I don't think he's the type to _starve_ himself." She leaned against the counter, contemplative. "But he is a little forgetful. And busy, what with all his studying. It could be that he just forgets to eat, or that he feels he doesn't have the time."

Arthur considered this, thinking that it very much sounded like something Merlin would do. But before he could answer, the boy himself was back in the room, putting the plates away in the cupboards without being asked. There was a slight tremor in his hands as he deftly stacked the china, and a sheen of sweat on his brow. Arthur couldn't help but think he had taken a suspicious amount putting his bags upstairs.

"Alright, Merlin?" he asked, trying to smother the concern in his tone. His friend turned and grinned cheekily.

"Always," he said.

Merlin continued with his task, blinking back the tears in his eyes. He could still taste the bile in the corners of his gums.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploration: Do They Fear Death

The rest of the school term passed relatively smoothly, with Merlin often disappearing to study and Arthur to practice for the spring football matches. Soon they started to transition into May, and with that came the stress and panic of exam season – and for both the younger boys and older girls, study leave.

Morgana had applied to Cambridge earlier that year, and having secured an offer after her immaculate interview, was strung taut with pressure. She needed two A*s and an A to go, and her Biology was falling just short. Gwen, who wasn't even offered an interview, had made Warwick her firm choice – with its infamous Literature and Creative Writing course, and its proximity to Morgana Pendragon's preferred location, she was striving for two As and a B. At her stuttered request, Merlin had begun helping her with Philosophy.

Arthur didn't know how his friend found the time. Between helping Gwen and shoving unbidden textbooks in Arthur's locker, Merlin was shooting for a place to read History at either Cambridge or Durham. The course was beyond competitive, and he already studied four other subjects – Arthur couldn't understand how he even had the time to breathe, let alone dish out his intellect to benefit others. The footballer rarely saw him at the Pendragon household anymore, and if he did see the elusive teenager, it was either rushing out of the school library or at the coffee shop in town, downing the stuff black and scribbling notes with trembling fingers. It was two weeks until their AS level examinations, and the more time went on, the less anyone felt prepared.

Arthur himself wasn't too worried. He really liked Bristol, and the Anthropology department were happy to accept him on two Bs and a C, as long as he maintained his stellar sports performances whilst there. He knew he would be happy there, and although far enough to avoid visits from father, it was not too far to check up on Morgana and Gwen. The blonde stuck to light studying, and instead worked on appearing at the right times to offer tea and biscuits to the fellow students in his house. The one time Merlin was around to accept the offer, the absolute panic in his eyes at having been interrupted drove Arthur to begin a hasty retreat.

But it didn't mean Arthur didn't notice.

Merlin looked like he would literally drop dead at any moment. If Arthur thought he was thin before, he was worse now – his eyes had become sunken pits of frozen worry, and his clothes hung from him like beggar's rags. It was never the things you'd expect – Arthur couldn't see his ribcage, or his protruding hips, although they both must have been there – instead, it was the yellow, papery texture of his skin, or the way his elbows jutted when his jumper was rolled up. Merlin looked like a starving child, and Arthur began struggling to remember when he looked different. Until one day, when he was scrolling through Morgana's Facebook, he was struck dumb.

The Merlin in the picture looked like someone else. It had been taken only a year ago, and yet the sixteen-year-old in the photograph had sharp cheekbones, but full cheeks; a tall figure, but trousers that fit in all the right places. He looked alive, and happy, even if he still wore tatty clothes and had scruffy hair – in fact, the footballer felt heat pool in his stomach at this version of his friend, and had to slam the laptop shut to prevent himself further embarrassment.

Had everyone just failed to notice this dramatic change? Or was there something Arthur was missing?

*

Arthur watched as the art students filtered out of the studio, searching for a familiar hunch of hoodie and faded trainers. It was nine days until his first scheduled exam, but the art students had just finished five straight hours of creation, some hands stained with oils and acrylics, others tangled in wire or sticky with clay. Their time was up, and whatever they had birthed in the last two days was ready to be marked by some old, withered invigilators, who Arthur could see patrolling the room from where he stood. What he couldn't see, however, was Merlin, and as the last of the students shuffled down the hall, the blonde weaved his way through, his hand stopping the door from closing behind them.

"Mr Pendragon," the art teacher sighed, and Arthur turned red when he realised he couldn't remember her name. "You can't come in here. You are not an art student, and even so, the exam is over."

"I know, I just –" He peered inside the room, searching for his friend. Miss "Mystic Fingers," as Arthur christened her based on the fifty rings she wore, tightened her grip on the doorframe. "I've been waiting outside for half an hour so I could take Merlin home –"

"Merlin?" She almost seemed to soften at the name. "He finished several hours ago. He's a fast painter, so he went home early."

"Oh." Arthur ran a hand over his face. He'd have to drive all the way to Merlin's house. He could wait until tomorrow, but Arthur wasn't sure if he could sleep on this conversation for another night. He met the teacher's gaze. "Well, as I'm here anyway, can I see what he came up with?"

Mystic Fingers made a noise in the back of her throat. "Mr Pendragon, I'm certain that will be breaking the rules –"

"Oh, come on," he moaned, leaning his elbow against the wall and giving her his most winning smile. "I'll only be a minute. Besides, he's so secretive when it comes to this!"

She seemed to consider introspectively for a moment, before she smiled and waved her garbed fingers at him. "Alright, but you have precisely thirty seconds before I kick you out."

When Arthur entered the room, he almost immediately tripped over an easel. The teacher who had let him in muttered disapprovingly, and another glared at him from the corner of the room. They dipped in and out of other pieces of work, some majestic canvases of artistry and others, in his opinion, complete trash, until they ended up in the corner of the room, where a tall canvas stood perpendicular to another easel with a mirror against it. Arthur frowned at the corner of his reflection.

"He used a mirror and painted from life, like a classical artist." Her voice seemed to swell with pride, but as Arthur moved round to focus on the painting, his heart clenched with everything but.

At first, Arthur couldn't see anything but the eyes. They were gold, much like the background of the painting, and hooded by orange lids. But as the picture expanded in front of him, its disturbing subject filled him with the worst concoction of fear and nausea. The person, much like Klimt's works, was seen on the far right; its feet, a pale pink, trailing on the floor amongst a pile of silvery mirrors. In them were reflected a cornucopia of sunken ghostly faces, but the most terrifying visage of all was the one of the boy, as tall as the canvas itself, hanging by a brittle rope. Arthur couldn't breathe as he recognised his friends face, painted crudely alive when it should be dead in a mixture of pinks, oranges and blues.

"Isn't it a perfect likeness?" The teacher said from somewhere behind him, and Arthur couldn't understand how she was able to speak so _calmly_. It was wrong – the image was haunting and nightmarish and it felt like he'd never get it off the backs of his eyelids. He wanted to hit his head and forget a whole year just so he'd never have to see it again. Without a word, Arthur strode from the room; jaw hardened and fists clenched, before he ran from the school, and then sprinted across the lot to his car.

What if it wasn't just art? What if when Arthur got to Merlin's house, there'd be a fallen chair, and those eyes staring at him?

Arthur could handle gold paint. But if he ever witnessed a cold, glassy blue, he feared he would never breathe right again.

*

"Merlin?"

Arthur slammed the door shut behind him, and winced as it reverberated across the walls, the only noise in the house. He skidded into the kitchen – stared for several seconds at the clean kitchen table and the faulty steel sink – and then took the stairs two at a time until he was almost laid flat on Merlin's mattress. The room was so small you could barely walk between the desk and the bed; books took up the remainder of the space, and extra blankets lay stacked in every sunken crevice. It was cold, and claustrophobic, and horrifically void of human life.

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted again, ignoring the waver of hysteria in his voice. Why wasn't he here? Where would Merlin even _go_ after an exam? The blonde kicked the bedframe viscously, pulling at his hair with sweaty hands. A moment later found him sitting on the bed, a millisecond away from tears.

A door slammed.

Arthur was halfway down the stairs by the time Merlin had set his plastic bag down on the sofa, shrugging his coat off and hanging it by the door. The raven visibly jumped as Arthur rounded the corner, clutching a hand to his chest.

"Jesus fuck, Arthur! You nearly gave me a heart atta–"

" _Why would you paint such a horrible thing?_ "

Merlin blinked, one hand holding his scarf limply. He seemed to take a few seconds to register what had just been asked of him, and then a few more to completely figure out the implications of such a question. He narrowed his eyes. "You saw my painting?"

The blonde stared at him incredulously. "Yes, yes I did. I saw your painting. _I saw your fucking painting, Merlin._ "

"How?"

"What does it matter, _how?_ " Arthur threw his hands in the air, close to screaming in frustration. " _Why would you paint yourself hanging from a rope?_ "

"To shock people."

"To _shock_ people?!"

Merlin rolled his eyes as if he were speaking to a toddler. " _Yes._ We went through this, remember? Klimt is my inspiration, and he painted to disrupt the normalcy of everyday life." Merlin rummaged amongst cheap plastic before pulling a box of coffee, a can of beans, and a bottle of diet lemonade from the plastic bag. "I mean, it kind of looks like it worked."

Arthur had no words.

"Miss Lenham really liked it, actually. Thought it would catch the invigilators eye, make them think."

"You painted it from life."

"What?"

"I said," Arthur began carefully, slowly following his friend into the kitchen, "you used a mirror. You painted _yourself_ from life."

"Your point being?"

" _Why?_ There has to be a reason you chose yourself as the subject. _Klimt_ wasn't in any of the paintings you showed me."

Merlin paused as he placed the coffee next to the kettle. Arthur couldn't see his face, but was certain his hands had begun to shake. "There was no reason. Just an artistic choice."

"Bullshit."

Merlin slammed the can of beans down hard on the counter. "What do you want me to say?"

"Anything, as long as it's not a _fucking lie._ "

"I'm hungry."

That was the last thing Arthur was expecting. He took a step forward, moving his mouth painfully as he tried to come up with a response. "W-What?"

"I said: I'm _fucking hungry._ "

Arthur swallowed. "Then eat something."

"No." The raven wrenched the fridge open aggressively, sliding his lemonade into an alcove. It was mostly bare. "No, I don't think so. I think instead –" Merlin lit the stove, manoeuvring the kettle so it sat on the flickering blue flames. "– I'll have some tea, because tea gets rid of the hunger pangs. But that will only work for an hour or so, so _then_ –" Merlin struck a mug down onto the table, the china clattering ominously, before smacking his hand against the fridge. "I'll drink that _entire_ bottle of lemonade, until I feel _sick_. And then if that still doesn't work, I'll eat a whole packet of crackers, or crisps, of five cans of beans, but I have to be quick you see, because - well, because I need to make sure _I throw them up_ before they've been properly digested."

The chair howled against the linoleum as Merlin scraped it back, sitting to face a pale and shivering Arthur. A whole minute passed, in which both teenagers heard the kettle begin to boil, and then Merlin, who seemed to disintegrate slowly as the clock drove further forward; placed a hand against his mouth, eyes wet. "I'm so sorry."

Arthur sniffed, his voice thick with emotion. "For what?"

"I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have said any of that."

"I'm glad you did." Merlin laughed, tears finally escaping as he stood from the table. "No, Merlin, wait –"

"I don't want your help!" he said, pointing an accusing finger at Arthur as he backed away. "I don't want _anyone's_ help."

"But Merlin," the blonde said, clasping his hands together in desperation, "you _need_ my help."

"Shut up."

"Have you seen yourself? You look like you're already at death's door. You're so thin it hurts just to look at you."

"Arthur, shut up."

"But I'm worried for you Merlin. Every time I see you it's like you've got sicker. Your clothes hardly fit you and your eyes are so empty, I can't bear it. If you don't stop, your heart will."

" _Just stop it!_ "

There was a moment of silence between them – one of those hollow moments that seem so void of sound, and yet the world is still moving. The kettle screamed, but went ignored. Five cars growled past before Arthur stood and shut the stove off completely.

"I already know everything you've told me." Merlin eventually looked up at him with red eyes, face crumpled by utter misery. "I know it's wrong. But you don't understand. It's like I need this, like I'm some kind of disturbed addict. I've tried to stop, and I can't. I just _c-can't._ " 

Merlin choked on the last word, and then slid to the ground exactly where he stood, his head in his hands as his shoulders shook with thick, crude sobs. At first Arthur didn't know what to do – he'd never had to console a guy before – but then as if on autopilot, he knelt and folded his body around Merlin's, chin resting on his mop of black hair. He could feel the boy's shoulder blades roil beneath his hands, and his sharp knees were pressed uncomfortably against his stomach, but he held fast until the lurching hiccups became quiet stutters of breath, and the tears were half dry on his shirt. Eventually, Merlin lifted his head, turning to rest it on Arthur's shoulder.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered solemnly, arms tightening around his friend. Arthur shifted where he sat, pulling Merlin's face in front of him so he could wipe the sticky tear tracks away.

"Neither do I," he said, palm brushing lightly over his face. "But we'll figure it out. I promise."


End file.
